


Cigarettes on the windowsill

by nandamagnail



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 19:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nandamagnail/pseuds/nandamagnail
Summary: I wish I didn’t know you. I wish I never sent that fucking letter. I wish I could hate you with the same intensity I still love you. But it doesn’t matter now. You chose your perfect life, and I chose the cigarettes you hate so much.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Cigarettes on the windowsill

We should have known.

How could we not have known? This is something that I keep thinking from time to time. We blinded ourselves, thinking we could overcome our past, the war, all the harm I’ve done to you, but we should have known.

 _It’s too much, Draco_ , you said. _I can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry_.

And I believe you. I do. But it hurts too much.

I miss the time I used to hate you. It was so much easier – better yet, I miss the time I didn’t know you at all. Your existence put everything I believed into question. If mudbloods were beneath me, why I didn’t feel that way about you? Why did you always make me question how smart a better than you I was?

My father said you were nothing but a little library rat that read too much, who wanted to show off that you indeed fit in our world. After second year, when it was undeniable how _good_ you were, he started calling you an _exception_. But making you an exception did nothing to the fact you were still a muggleborn. That your blood was mud, and you and people like you were taking advantage of something that was never truly yours.

And then the war came. The marks and the scars came. And somehow, someway, we found each other.

You saw me wounded and scared after my trial, and up to this day I don’t know the reason why you came to talk to me, but you did. You said you were sorry for everything that happened. That hoped I could do better in the future. And thanked my mother for helping Potter at the end.

I sent you a letter a month after that, and you answered. And we periodically sent letters to one another, until one day you asked me if I ever wanted to see muggle London. _You may surprise yourself with what you can find_ , you said.

Everything was new and bright in a way I didn’t expect. Even without magic, muggles were able to create amazing things, such as televisions and airplanes. You were always patient and helpful, and one day I questioned you about it.

 _You were raised without never seeing the other side. I think seeing how muggles truly are may change your mind_.

Like the war didn’t do that already.

Going to muggle London became usual, at some point. You would introduce me to something new, and that got us closer and closer. And closer we got.

You were my first, although I wasn’t yours – and I never asked who was the first man you were with, since I felt the answer would raise unnecessary jealousy and it wasn’t my place to ask. I was already getting too much from you. I was able to touch and kiss you, Hermione. You made me feel loved and appreciated, like I was worth of something good. Like I was worth of you.

Until the day I wasn’t. Until the day Potter and Weasley found out about us in the first page of The Prophet. Until the world knew you were with a Death Eater.

On those nights you were laying in my arms and we traced patterns in each other’s skin, we talked about the war and its consequences, talked about how I hurt you, how you healed me. How glad I was by sending you that letter. We talked about pain and gratitude in a manner that was easy and hard to understand for those on the outside. But I never asked about your friends, I never asked if they knew about us. Somehow, I knew I would trespass a limit and the answer would hurt me.

On the day The Prophet published that article, I found out I was your dirty little secret. That the main reason we met in muggle London was not so you could teach me about the muggle world and show how wrong and absurd my prejudice was, but to make it easier to see me without confronting wizard society. Without needing to tell your friends you fell for a man too broken by his own mistakes.

 _We could never really work, not with our past. Maybe in another life, we could have been great. I know we could. But not in this one_ , you said, and that was the fucking cherry on top of the cake.

It hurt like hell, Hermione. How cruel you were.

I always knew I didn’t deserve you, it was clear to me from the start. But you made me know what love tasted like – or the closest of love I could get. You let me know what it was to feel worthy when all I could think of was all the bad choices I have made when I should have known better.

Choices like meeting you.

One of the things you introduced me to when we were in muggle London was cigarettes. _I hate them_ , you said. _I hate the smell. It’s addictive and horrible for your lungs and teeth_.

That’s why I smoke now.

On the day you left, the first thing I did was going to one of those muggle shops with impolite sellers and buying a pack. Marlboro, I said, because I saw the big logo close to the cashier. I didn’t know what to say when he asked which one, so the fella just gave me one white pack with a red triangle on top. _A classic, everybody likes this one_.

Red. What a fucking awful colour.

But in the end the cashier was right. Everybody loves the red one.

Drinking was also a habit I acquired after you gave up on us. It didn’t feel as good as coffee and cigarettes, but coffee made me think about you too much, and thinking about you was and is something I try to avoid as much as possible.

Today, though, you were forced once again into my miserable existence.

I saw you on the first page of The Prophet, but not alone. Weasley was by your side, smiling happily with his hand on your waist in such a way I never truly felt I could hold you. _War heroines finally together!_

You had your hands on his shoulders, but your smile never reached your eyes.

You chose to follow the script. Best friends who fought together in the war, what a perfect couple. It was easy. It was acceptable.

I could laugh if it wasn’t so sad.

I went to the windowsill, cigarette in hand, and I was already letting out the smoke before the window was open. I throw the ashes on top of the newspaper with the happy couple on the cover. How I wish I could throw my misery on you both in real life, but in the end that meant nothing.

I wish I didn’t know you. I wish I never sent that fucking letter. I wish I could hate you with the same intensity I still love you.

It doesn’t matter now. You chose your perfect life, and I chose the cigarettes you hate so much.

We should have known we could never work, and now I have to live with the consequences of loving you. Seeing you in the arms of another man is the price I pay for all the choices I’ve made.

Maybe in another life. Who knows. I wish I knew.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came out of nowhere. I was writing a letter to myself on FutureMe website, when I decided to go buy a pack and smoke a cigarette, which led to me thinking too much about my recent break up, so two hours later, after a bottle of wine and some blueberry cider, here it is. Decided to concentrate the angst on something more productive, I hope it pays off.
> 
> It's been a while since I've written dramione, and I normally write in Portuguese, so this is my first one in English with the ship. Any grammar mistake, please forgive and let me know. I hope you all enjoy this drunk oneshot.


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